One Bottle Or Two?
by avrovulcan
Summary: Illya and Napoleon are sent to locate a hidden and booby trapped cellar. Originally written for Picfic Tuesday on LJ.


The dank stone passageway echoed to the sound of careful footsteps, outside it was an unbearably hot summer's day; down in the maze of tunnels it was comfortably cool, much to Illya's relief.

"Left here Napoleon."

"Right then," Solo replied

"No left,"

"I know you said left,"

"Then why say right?"

"I said it in affirmation."

"Ah, right."

"I thought you said left."

Kuryakin rolled his eyes in despair, "I did."

"You just said right."

"I was acknowledging your affirmation."

Napoleon rubbed his eyes, "I'm getting a headache."

The pair were trying to find a hidden wine cellar belong to the head of a satrapy in London who'd been rounded up along with his associates and sequestered at the local UNCLE HQ.

The cave where the alcohol had been stored was reputed to hold nearly a million dollars worth of priceless bottles of wines and spirits, including some very rare examples.

Before they could be confiscated, Solo and Kuryakin had been sent down into the catacombs to locate the hoard and ensure it was safe for the retrieval crew to enter. Illya had managed to find a map of the extensive network and they were half way to their goal, though it was taking time as they had to disable numerous booby traps along the way.

"STOP, do not move," the Russian shouted.

Napoleon literally froze with his foot still in the air, looking enquiringly at his partner.

"The surface just in front of you is a slightly different colour; it could be a pressure pad."

The American peered at the indicated area, but he couldn't see any obvious variation in the dirt. Carefully Kuryakin approach the patch he had his eye on and carefully swept away the covering, revealing a dull silver plate, he ran a sensor above the metal, but it showed no reaction.

"It is not a mine, so it is probably a pressure plate as I thought. Back away slowly, I will disarm it."

Solo did as he was told and watched as his partner looked for a couple of good sized rocks and backed up also. Once they were a several feet away, he threw it at the plate. A dull metallic thud was heard and at the same time a series of darts flew out from the walls either side of it. Illya took another stone and hurled it at the target again, but nothing happened.

"I think it is disarmed now," he approached and picked up a dart, gingerly sniffing the point, "as I thought, tipped with poison, Methylated Cobrox* to be exact."

"Hmmm, nasty," Napoleon shivered, glad Illya had stopped him when he did. "Lead on Macduff."

"Actually it is 'lay on Macduff' it is a misquotation from Shakespeare's Macbeth,"

"And I bet you even know which act."

The Russian grinned, "Act Five, Scene Eight. The words are spoken by Macbeth to Macduff. They are in battle and Macduff challenges Macbeth to yield."

"Okay, I bet you don't know when it was first misquoted." Solo was fairly confident he'd stumped his partner as they continued their trek.

Illya was still carefully scanning his surroundings as he replied, "14 February 1867 in 'Country Words: a north of England magazine of literature, science, and art'. In a conversation about the reason for the visit, the narrator says to Punch, 'That's the style, Lead on Macduff.'"

Solo's face dropped, how his friend knew these things he'd never know. "I'll take your word for it, tovarisch. I do believe we're here."

The tunnel opened into a good sized cave with rows of shelves holding a wide variety of bottles.

Napoleon approached one of the shelves and picked up a dusty bottle, brushing the layer of detritus off and reading the label, he whistled, "Cognac Napoleon Grande Champagne 1811 Reserve."

"Caves de l'Hotel de Paris, Monte Carlo, Vieille Fine, Champagne 1865," Illya read from one cradled in his own hands before replacing it.

"No wonder it's so well hidden, there are some very fine vintages here."

Kuryakin was busy examining another shelf and a section of wall nearby when there was an ominous click, followed by a steady ticking.

"Chyort! Napoleon run."

Suddenly a rumble sounded and the Russian shot by him, some bottles cradled in his arms. Without thinking, the American grabbed what he could, hoping they were some of the more valuable examples and followed hot on the heels of his partner.

They reached the other end of the tunnel, but were blown out the entrance by the force of the blast chasing them. After the dust settled Napoleon picked himself up off the grass and brushed himself down, looking round he spied his partner a couple of feet away. Miraculously, the bottles they'd rescued had survived the rough handling.

"Ohh, my head," Kuryakin rubbed at a rapidly blossoming lump on his forhead.

"Looks like you've taken a nasty bump there, partner mine," Solo held up a Grand Marnier he'd managed to rescue, "How many bottles am I holding up?"

"Errr, two... I think?" Illya replied, a puzzled expression on his face, "will you keep still so I can count them please?" he pleaded.

"I'm not moving, pal."

Suddely Illya's face lit up, "Vodka! Very good ones."

The Russan staggered to where a single bottle of the clear spirit lay nestled in the grass, "and there are three of them too," he added.

He reached to pick up one of the bottles he could see, only for his hand to grab at a patch of grass a few inches to the left of the real one instead, Kuryakin looked at his hand then up at Napoleon in confusion.

"I think you've had a worse bang on the head then I first thought, tovarisch. Come on let's get you to Medical. I'll explain to Waverley what happened later." Napoleon grimaced at what the Old Man was likely to say about it all.

* The Girls From Nazarone Affair


End file.
